


A Christmas to Remember

by Gracie_Girl87



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Some Grimmons angst, Some Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:01:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28334280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gracie_Girl87/pseuds/Gracie_Girl87
Summary: Sarge has a brilliant idea to stump the blues once and for all! It involves master planning, vigilance, bravery... and possibly some tinsel.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	A Christmas to Remember

There was a certain alert silence that rippled over the room. Something Sarge did not expect from Red team outright when he told them all about his brilliant master plan to stump blue team once and for all.

“You have got to be kidding me.” Grif drawled from where he stood at attention, or at least his version of standing at attention.

“Not at all, private Grif.” Sarge snorted, puffing his chest out a little more than usual. “This here is a serious operation. It’ll hit them right where it hurts!”

Donut was practically buzzing with delight, trying so damn hard not to hop on his toes from the pure ecstasy bursting at the seams of his lightish-red armor. Lopez, to his credit, didn’t so much as utter a single curse under his breath, knowing full well it would probably just go unnoticed or ignored. Grif sagged a bit.

“Come on, Sarge.” He pleaded hopelessly. “There has got to be a better way to get back at the blues than sending them a-”

“Ah, ah, ah.” Sarge tutted. “This is probably one of the most brilliant ideas I’ve ever had! It’s radiant! Glamorous! Luminous! Why it’s downright dazzling! And I will not have any chubby little orange nay sayers ruining it for me!”

“Are we talking about the plan-” Donut whispered, leaning closer into Lopez. “Or a Christmas tree?”

“Excellent idea, Donut!” Sarge exclaimed, nearly tripping as he spun on his heels to face him directly. “We need the biggest, finest, most amazing tree this side of the galaxy has to offer!”

“Wait, what?” Grif straightened with surprise.

“In fact, Donut, I’m appointing you as head of this whole operation… after me, of course, because I’m still the leader.”

“Well gosh, Sarge, I don’t know what to say.” Donut smiled, scratching a pretend itch behind his head.

“No way.” Grif said, crossing his arms. “There is no fucking way we are actually doing this.”

“Quiet, you little debbie double dipper!” Sarge barked.

“Sir, with all due respect-” Simmons cut in abruptly from where he stood between Grif and Lopez. “I’m going to have to agree with Grif on this one. I don’t see how sending the blues a Christmas card will end this war.”

“My dear Simmons,” Sarge purred, all too knowingly. “I can see how you would think that, but let me assure you I know precisely what I am doing. This Christmas card will be the first link to break in blue command’s paper thin chain, keenly leading to the inevitable demise of blue teams everywhere. Not just in this canyon, but in canyons everywhere, across the galaxy itself!”

“I fail to see how, Sir.” Simmons admitted reluctantly.

“Of course you do, Simmons! But don’t you worry; I’ll do my best to explain it to you.”

Grif was happy for the concealment of his helmet, if only for the fact that it completely hid his eye roll from Sarge. Simmons held up a finger as though he might object to Sarge explaining his _brilliant_ plan, but dropped said hand down to his side, deciding against it entirely. Sarge paced in front of them, hands promptly clamped together against his lower back.

“As we all know, the Christmas season is a very special time of year. There’s decorations, and presents and-”

“Paid vacation?” Grif added.

“No!” Sarge snapped.

“Mistletoe?” Donut crooned, excitedly.

“Sometimes.” Sarge admitted, tilting his head from side to side.

“Good will and peace on Earth?” Simmons added meekly.

“Well there’s always that.” Sarge mused, rubbing a considerate hand over the chin of his helmet.

“Really?” Simmons chirped.

“Of course! But as we all know, this ain’t Earth!”

“Tell me about it.” Grif drawled under his breath.

“We will bring the Christmas season down upon our enemies.” Sarge growled, striking a fist in his palm. “It will rain down on their base like fire. Fire I tell you! It will be the Hindenburg of Christmases!”

Grif shifted on his feet. It was barely a movement at all, but even so, Simmons took note of it from the corner of his eye. He could have sworn that was discomfort in his teammate’s posture, but he didn’t have the time to analyze it further as Donut rose up a bashful pink hand.

“But Sarge, what does a Christmas card have to do with bringing down our enemies?” He asked.

Simmons would have deemed it a stupid question had he not wanted to know so damn badly himself. Again, Sarge turned on his heel, working his way back up the line of soldiers he had called to attention just moments before.

“A Christmas card will remind the blues just how alone they truly are. Sure, they’ll open the card and feel a twinge of sweet nothing. They might even feel warm and fuzzy inside, but then WHAM! It’ll strike and it’ll strike hard!”

“You want us to execute a surprise attack whilst the blue team opens our Christmas card?” Simmons stated.

“How will we even know when to strike if they’re opening the card inside the base?” Grif added.

Simmons felt his shoulders release a tension he had been subconsciously holding onto at the sound of Grif’s voice. Where ever Grif had gone when Sarge mentioned the Hindenburg of Christmases, he had eventually found his way back; as if Grif had been frozen in whatever memory those particular words had drudged up for him. Simmons was relieved to say the least, for whatever reason. Sarge halted his next step.

“Not us, you over sized oompa loompa! Haven’t you been listening? I said _it_! _IT_ will strike!”

Grif and Simmons exchanged a look before asking together,

“What’s _it_?”

“The Christmas Spirit!” Sarge announced with such reverence.

The valiant devotion was enough to make both Grif and Simmons arch a brow. However, Simmons was the only one brave enough to clear his throat.

“Sir, you can’t be serious.”

“I one hundred and ten percent am!” Sarge hollered, his voice resuming its usual husky snarl. “You best believe that when those blues open that card, it will be the beginning of their downfall!”

“So you’re telling me,” Grif said, with little to no emotion at all in his voice. “That your plan to defeat the blues… is to fill them with the Christmas spirit?”

“With a card.” Donut added.

“Don’t encourage this shit.” Grif scolded.

“Not just fill them with Christmas spirit. I want to overwhelm them! Private Grif, this plan is undoubtedly the best we’ve ever had. Er, the best plan _I’ve_ ever had, because I’m the one who came up with it. Yep.” Sarge paced down the line once more, hands folded behind his back. “You see, the second they open that card, they’ll feel all the warm tickling sensations this season has to offer, but when they see our family photo on the front-”

“Family?” Grif nearly choked.

“Ph- photo?” Simmons stuttered.

“Warm tickling sensations?” Donut chimed.

“Yes!” Sarge said straightening. “There will be a nice family photo of us on the front wishing them a very Merry Christmas. When they see it, they will be happy… until WHAM-OH! They realize they’re all alone with no family, no friends, no decorations, no presents or mistletoe or paid vacation or peace on Earth! They’ll soon remember that this is a war zone, a battle ground, a concrete base with no love or sense of home! Then they’ll be bawling their eyes out, crying for their mothers to rock them until sweet death herself comes to claim them. Heh, heh! With any luck at all, they’ll be dead by New Year’s Eve.”

Again, the room fell silent and again Simmons rose a finger to oppose the whole idea, but couldn’t even begin to form the words he needed for it. Sarge chuckled.

“Heh, heh. I knew you’d all be speechless. This plan is so brilliant; there is no possible way in hell it could ever fail.”

“Thank God we’re in hell then.” Grif mumbled to himself.

“Este es el plan estupido que he escuchado.” Lopez finally said at last.

“You’re right, my robotic compadre.” Sarge said, pointing a finger in the air as if there were a lightbulb hovering just above his head. “There isn’t much time. We need to get started on this pronto! Donut, I leave you in charge of finding a Christmas tree… and finding decorations… and the photo…and the attire.”

“Oh gosh! Where do I even begin?” Donut squealed with excitement.

Grif rolled his neck around in a wide circle as if to say _here we go again_. Simmons felt inclined to do the same, but opted for small shrug instead.

“I guess… I’ll get started on those decorations?” Simmons tried to smile. Tried to and failed.

“That’s the spirit!” Sarge laughed, clapping him on the back hard enough grunt.

“Some spirit.” Grif scoffed.

And so, the plan to overwhelm the blue team with the spirit of Christmas began.




As Sarge had wanted, Donut appointed everyone on red team a task to fulfill. Lopez and Sarge were given the task of finding anything and everything they could use as lights for the Christmas tree. Donut appointed himself with locating and retrieving said Christmas tree, plus finding a proper tripod suitable enough to position the camera on top of for the picture itself. That left Grif and Simmons to inspect every inch of red base for anything good enough to use as decorations for the tree, once Donut had found one that is. Grif, of course, grumbled the entirety of their search.

“Why do we have to fucking do this?” He groaned.

“Would you quit complaining?” Simmons scolded from where he squatted, rummaging through a crate of old papers. “The faster we find decorations for the tree, the sooner we don’t have to do this anymore.”

“But I’m tired and hungry.” Grif groaned, dramatically leaning against the doorframe leading into the room. “Seriously, why did Sarge have to interrupt breakfast for this shit? Couldn’t he have waited until, you know, never?”

“Just shut up and come help me.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

Grif pushed off the door to lazily stride three or four steps into the room, before he sagged at the stacks upon stacks of random crates shoved into corners here and there. Despite Sarge’s leadership and Simmons’ constant nagging to organize, the storage rooms below red base were, for lack of better phrasing, an absolute mess. Simmons couldn’t hide the cringe that etched up his spine into his shoulders the second the door slide open to reveal the room. His OCD almost swallowed him whole. Grif, however, was a welcomed distraction, even if all he ever did was gripe and complain.

“So, what exactly are we looking for?” Grif sighed, planting both hands atop his hips to look about the cramped room once more.

“If we had run an inventory on these storage rooms like I wanted to months ago, perhaps I would know.”

“Woah, dude, if you start saying words like _inventory_ , I’m gone.”

“All I’m saying is if we had one, maybe I would know exactly what to look for.”

“What exactly _are_ we looking for?”

“Oh my God, Grif, I swear to God if you’re not looking through a crate in the next ten seconds-”

“Fine, fine, I’m going, I’m going.”

It wasn’t long before Grif had a switch blade slicing through the yellowed tape of some old box. Something about its shape and size he deemed worthy of opening, but there was nothing but old carbon copies of receipts from Red Command ordering this and that. Ironically, the paper was a bright sky blue. Grif unfurled a roll of it, reading the teeny tiny print inked across each line; a rocket launcher here, a helmet replacement there. The list itself was utter nonsense; enough so that it had Grif shaking his head lightly, wondering who the fuck was running this army. He unraveled it further, reading a few more lines until the idea suddenly dawned on him.

“Hey, Simmons?”

“What?”

Simmons didn’t so much as turn from his box, but that didn’t stop Grif as he rose to stand, uncoiling the receipt a little more.

“You wanted an inventory? Here it is.”

At that Simmons turned on his toes, stabilizing himself with a planted knee.

“Receipts.” Grif grinned, waving the twisting blue paper in his hand. “Receipts of everything Sarge has ever ordered in the past… I don’t know, man, three years? It goes on forever.”

“Grif, that’s brilliant!”

“Glad you think so. Are we done here?”

“Not quite.” Simmons said, rushing to grab the list of assets from him. “But this will definitely speed things up.”

“Great.” Grif remarked dryly.

Simmons scanned and scanned and scanned the small black print of the uncoiling receipt. He muttered a few words to himself, but it was nothing Grif could honestly make out or understand. Not that he wanted to anyways. It wasn’t until Simmons removed his helmet with a clicked turn of his head that Grif felt suddenly at odds with himself. His teammate’s red brown hair and never ending array of freckles unexpectedly formed a lump in his throat. Something he felt inclined to swallow down immediately. Simmons rubbed an armored hand across his chin and lips silently reading the list of absurdity to himself, and it was all Grif could do not to study the color of said lips in the fear he might be caught watching. He turned away, lightly kicking an orange boot against a dusty pile of unopened boxes next to where Simmons had been working.

Minutes passed. Several long agonizing minutes, until Simmons airily growled to himself.

“Damn it.” He groaned. “None of this does us any good.”

“Oh come on, there has to be something.”

“Unless you want to decorate a tree with ammunition and grenades, no, none of this will work.”

“Grenades kind of look like ornaments.” Grif offered, knowing full well Simmons wouldn’t take him seriously. In fact he planned on Simmons not taking that cornel of wisdom seriously, if only to see that face he would make, silently asking whether or not Grif was crazy for suggesting it in the first place. He did as his eyebrows nudged closer together, his eyes turning wildly savage.

“Yeah, grenades _look_ like ornaments, until one slips from its pin falling to the floor between our feet.”

“With any luck, _that_ would be the picture we put on the front of the card.” Grif snorted, crossing his arms.

“You’re insane.”

Simmons shook his head, skimming the paper once more before reaching for the next coil of listed resources. Still, there was nothing he deemed safe enough to hang from a tree branch. Not unless they all wanted a severed limb of some sort. He didn’t plan on sacrificing the other half of his body anytime soon. Again, Grif was happy for the concealment of his helmet visor as he slowly, so slowly, looked Simmons over from head to toe. His maroon teammate was shorter than him, barely. Grif told himself it wasn’t why he slouched so often. He convinced himself it had to be something else, anything. Because not correcting one’s posture for the benefit of someone else’s self-esteem would be stupid and extraneous, but-

He couldn’t help himself. He bumped the heel of his boot against the stack of boxes once more before dragging his gaze over every inch of the maroon man standing before him. Distracted with the ridiculously cataloged mumbo jumbo in his hands, Simmons was blissfully unaware of Grif’s wandering eyes. They roved over every plate of armor, soaking in the shapeliness of him. Simmons was by no means buff or built in any way, but his body was a slim hardened mass of muscle. Over time, it had been honed to be that way. The diet and regimented exercise from basic training onward was enough to whip Simmons into shape, even if he was completely unaware of its progress.

Grif had never mentioned to anyone, Simmons included, that within the first three months of basic training he had dropped about twenty pounds. Of course, no one noticed. He was just the right amount of pudgy that nobody took note of it at all. After the initial physical exam to join the military, the army found that they couldn’t be bothered to spare the doctors for routine checkups, due to the lack of them entirely. Humanity had been spread so thin across the galaxy since the covenant decided to show their ugly faces, so routine checkups fell to the way side until more doctors could be recruited. Needless to say, Grif kept the weight off, despite his excessive need to snack almost around the clock.

He rested an elbow atop one of the many piles surrounding them. Boredom began to creep back into his mind until Simmons drove a hand back through his drooping hair. Grif tracked the movement like a damn hound. He almost hated himself for it. Almost.

“Well, that’s it.” Simmons sighed. “I can’t find a single thing on this list that won’t get us killed… or worse.”

“What’s worse than getting killed?” Grif shrugged.

“I don’t know. I just thought it sounded dramatic.”

“Come on, there has to be something. Help me out. What should we be looking for?”

“I don’t know!” Simmons exclaimed, running a frantic hand back through his hair. “We need something that resembles an ornament or tinsel or garland without the risk of blowing ourselves up in the process.” He drained a heavily defeated sigh into a gloved hand before waving the list around with the other. “And there is nothing on this list that remotely suggests any of those things.”

But when Simmons finally dropped that hand down at his side, the receipt itself wound and curled and twisted all the way back down to its box of origin. And that’s when Grif’s acute eye for laziness struck another brilliant idea.

“What about the receipt?”

“What?”

“The receipt.” Grif said again. “Just use the list of assets. It already curls in on itself. All we have to do is wrap it around the tree and then we’re done.”

There was a beat of silence as Simmons entertained the thought of it. He looked down at the paper, bouncing it in his hand to see how it moved and how it curled. His eyebrows flicked up.

“You know, Grif… that just might work.”

“And it doesn’t explode.” Grif added.

“Yeah, that too.”

And there it was. A smile tugged at the corner of Simmons’ mouth as he again weighed the movement of the paper in his palm. Grif cursed himself for staring; for drinking in that adorable slash of white that made his heart rage against him and had his mouth suddenly feeling dry. Again he turned away, kicking that same stack of boxes a little harder than the last two times.

“Are we done here?”

Grif made no effort to disguise the impatience in his voice, but Simmons nodded all the same.

“Yeah. Yeah, we’re done. This should be all we need.”

“Good.” Grif said gruffly, already making his way to the door. “I need a nap.”

Before Simmons could open his mouth, Grif was already through the door and down the hall.

“I guess I’ll be bringing these upstairs myself then.”




“What!?” Grif exclaimed, shooting to his feet so quickly he nearly fell.

“Believe me.” Simmons groaned. “I’m just as thrilled about it as you are.”

Simmons reluctantly found himself on the threshold of Grif’s room. After presenting the box of receipts to Sarge and Donut, there was a long needless debate on whether or not the tree should be decorated in blue. Sarge demanded they go back and find something red or green, given that those were the proper colors of the season; green like the glorious battle grounds of war or red like the blood of his enemies. Decorating the tree in blue would send the wrong message, Sarge had said, but given that it was the only thing Grif and Simmons could find, there was no way in hell Simmons could bring himself to stomach the heaping piles of jungle that were the storage rooms below red base.

After almost an hour of back and forth, Donut finally suggested that blue might very well be the color they needed most for the tree, given that he was pretty sure both Agent Texas and Church were probably Jewish. After trying to explain to Sarge why blue was the usual color that represented Hanukkah, Simmons opted for a shorter, more effective, explanation to put an end to this whole conversation. If they were to decorate the tree with blue, Simmons explained thoroughly, it will remind them of Hanukkah or blue team or whatever _tickling sensations_ Sarge had mentioned earlier. Therefore, it would raise blue team’s holiday spirits even higher; and the higher the spirit the harder the fall. Of course, Sarge agreed to that plan whole heartedly. And that was that.

Simmons sagged with relief knowing he could finally get back to his official duties around red base. That is, until Donut shouted for him to catch a supple bag of what felt like clothing. Simmons fumbled for the bag, barely catching it with his robotic left arm. His face lit with shock when he opened it up to see what was inside, but Donut wagged a finger saying it wasn’t quite time for those yet. His next set of instructions were to shower, comb your hair and give yourself a nice clean shave. Simmons didn’t mind the self-care list of to-dos until Donut called after him again demanding that he be the one to oversee that Grif do the same. He might have cringed at that, but rather than argue, he decided it would be best to get himself put together before waking the slumbering orange oaf from his midday nap.

“I’m not shaving.” Grif countered, crossing one arm over the other.

“Grif-”

“No, dude, it’s not happening. I don’t care if Sarge has to tie me down and threaten me with a machete. It’s not happening.”

“Could you at least trim?”

Simmons knew a lost cause when he saw one, especially when it came to his orange bedecked teammate. Grif lowered his brows, crossing his arms a little closer to the chest.

“Not… happening.”

“Fine.” Simmons sighed, uplifting his hands in surrender. “Fine, but when Sarge has to tie you down, don’t come crying to me.”

“Whatever, dude.”

Grif pulled out an orange hair tie from its holding place atop his head. His dark brown unruly mane bounced, lightly drifting over his shoulders as he turned to a small mirror just above his desk. His nap had pulled and matted his hair in all the wrong ways. Of course his hair length was nowhere near regulation standards, but that didn’t stop him from letting it grow. Simmons often admired how much hair Grif was able to conceal within the cramped constraints of his helmet. He also took note of how Grif complained about every little thing under the sun… except his hair. Because God forbid he complain about it once too many before Sarge broke out the machete. Simmons allowed himself to wonder if Sarge even had a machete. He told himself he didn’t particularly want to know.

“What’s in the bag?” Grif inquired, jerking his chin to the sack slumped against the doorway.

“You’re not gonna like it; I can already tell you that.”

“I know that.” Grif defended, swishing his hair left and right to begin collecting it in his hands. “But what is it?”

Simmons’ answering grin was enough to make Grif roll his eyes before bowing at the waist to thoroughly wrangle in his hair. He roved his palms over the back of his neck for any neglected strands of chocolate brown tufts before flipping himself right side up with a hefty groan. His jaw practically unhinged at the sight of Simmons standing there in his doorway with, not one, but two oversized wooly knitted ugly Christmas sweaters. Both had an obnoxiously large letter in the center of the chest. The Orange one had an E, while the maroon one had an R. Grif shook his head, rolling his eyes under his eyelids.

“Those are the ugliest things I have ever seen.” Grif drawled, not bothering to look at the sweaters again. If anything, the expression written across his face told Simmons he would likely burn them the first chance he got.

“Don’t let Donut hear you say that. Apparently he made them himself.”

“Aren’t those supposed to have an S and a G on them?”

“I said the same thing. But according to Donut, all five sweaters go in an order. M-E-R-R-Y.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”

“I wish I was.” Simmons sighed with wry disappointment.

“When did he even have time to make those?”

Grif stretched the orange hair tie from around his wrist to encompass the deep brown locks of his hair once. Then twice. Simmons shook himself awake.

“Apparently he made them a long time ago, knowing someday we’d make a family Christmas card.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Say what?”

“ _Family_. The second this war is over, I’m not talking to any of you fuckers again.”

Simmons might have been taken aback by that statement had it been anyone else saying it. He knew Grif hated it here. He hated the people, the war, the bases, the enemy; everything. He hated Blood Gulch and everything it stood for, but-

_I’m not talking to any of you fuckers again._

The words clanged something awkward in Simmons. Something he couldn’t quite name. Before he could call it heartache, Donut’s resonant chuckle came echoing around the corner down the hall.

“Are you guys ready?”

Simmons peeked over his shoulder into the hallway. He didn’t- _couldn’t_ fully turn away from Grif. Something told him that if he did, he might disappear entirely. He swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Almost, Donut. We’re just getting dressed.”

“Well hurry up you two. Everything is all set up.”

“Already?” Simmons muttered under his breath.

“That was fast.” Grif mused. “We’ll be there in a minute, keep your shirts on.” Grif grumbled, calling after Donut.

With that, Grif snatched the E sweater out of Simmons hand, slipping it over his loosely fitted sleep shirt. He was careful not to knock around the freshly tied man bun atop his head. Simmons could feel his cheeks heating at the sight of Grif dressing. In order to disguise his newly rose flushed cheeks, Simmons followed suit by throwing on his own sweater. To his amusement, it was surprisingly comfy. Not at all itchy like he had imagined it might be.

“Well,” Grif sighed, straightening his sweater at the waist. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Right.” Simmons nodded.




“For the last time, Caboose,” Church seethed through his grinding teeth. “You can’t keep storing your popsicles in your helmet.”

“But, it has the-”

“For the love of God. YES! I know your helmet has cooling fans, but just because something has fans, does not make it a refrigerator.”

Before Caboose could tell Church that popsicles belonged in a freezer, not a refrigerator, Tucker came strolling into the room, waving an envelope around in the air.

“Hey, Church?”

“What?!?”

“We got a… a letter?”

“A letter?” Church said straightening. “From command?”

“No, it’s from the Reds.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ.” Church breathed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Oh my gosh!” Caboose yelled. “Do you think it’s a Christmas card?”

“Caboose, don’t be ridiculous.” Tucker smiled, handing the letter over to Church to open. “Why would the Reds do something stupid like that?”

But sure enough, once Church had torn the envelope header open to reveal the letter within, both Caboose and Tucker flanked him on either side to get a look over his armored shoulder. It was a picture; a picture of absolute terror and laughter and nonsense. It was the usual Red team bullshit. Of course, Donut never found a tripod, so they detached Lopez’s head from his body, utilizing his neck joint as the perfect place to hold a camera for the picture. Donut was in charge of holding Lopez’s head and sweater, but that was not what the blues had noticed most about the picture.

Apparently, Sarge thought it would be festive to light up the place with red flare sticks poking out of the ground here and there. It certainly looked festive enough, until one of the sparkling rods ignited the rocket launcher ammunition encircling the receipt decorated tree. It wasn’t a traditional Christmas tree of course, given that the only tree in the entire canyon was the skeletal one out in the middle of the battlefield. The picture itself was a sight to behold. Sarge was smiling and probably laughing maniacally as the explosion, mid-eruption behind them all went up in flames. Simmons was covering his head, while Grif shoved anyone and anything out of the way to get the hell out of there. Donut’s scream was frozen in time, tears practically spitting from his eyes where he held onto Lopez’s head for dear life. The letters of their sweaters were a jumbled mess as the picture snapped right when they were all running for their very lives.

Silence rippled over blue team as they all took in the chaotic disaster of the photo.

“Oh, well that’s very nice.” Caboose sighed, leaning his head against Church’s shoulder.

“That sure as hell explains the explosion we heard the other night.” Tucker laughed.

“It sure does.” Church answered distantly, still soaking in the disorderly portrait of red team.

“Where should we hang it?” Caboose asked excitedly, bouncing on his toes.

“You know what, I’ll leave that up to you buddy.” Church smiled, handing Caboose the photo. “It’s all yours. Merry Christmas, Caboose.”

Before another word could be said, Caboose raced from the room, no doubt already having a place in mind to hang the obnoxious card for all to see. Tucker stepped up beside Church before arching a brow towards him.

“Should we… send one back?”

“There is no way in _hell_ we are ever, and I mean _ever_ -”

Just then, Caboose popped his head back into the room.

“Can we bake them cookies?” He asked so innocently.

Tucker gave Church a look that told him not to break the kid’s hopes and dreams. Church considered then reluctantly rolled his eyes with a groan.

“Fine. We’ll bake the reds some fucking cookies.”

Caboose beamed a smile with a cheer then scurried off back down the hall again. Tucker clapped Church on the back.

“Merry Christmas, you old Grinch.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck you too.”

And so, the red team Christmas card hung on the freezer door, were popsicles go, for the remainder of their time in Blood Gulch. Even when Sister held her concerts and raves there, years later, she never took it down.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone! I wrote this as a Secret Santa exchange with a good friend of mine on Tumblr. I hope you enjoy the read and have a happy holidays!


End file.
